


Predictions

by foramomentonly



Category: Glee
Genre: Klaine SOTU Challenge, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:13:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foramomentonly/pseuds/foramomentonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaine meet at a DUI checkpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predictions

Honestly, Kurt thinks, I should have seen this coming.

After all, it’s a college town, on the night – well, very early the next morning, really – of the last day of spring finals, and he is using the most direct route from the cluster of bars and nightclubs that cater to the barely twenty-one crowd back to the university. It stands to reason he would run into a DUI checkpoint. He, and a car full of inebriated co-eds. Every straight man’s dream, Kurt thinks as he slows the car to a crawl and cranes his neck forward in an effort to count the number of cars ahead of him on line.

Really, he’s not concerned; he had quickly been assigned designated driver for he and his three roommates “celebratory night out,” and so he had spent the evening nursing several Coke Zeros at the bar of a hot, crowded, ridiculously sleazy nightclub and slipping the bartender an extra twenty to water down the girls’ drinks. The last thing he needed was to play the dutiful friend and hold one of the girls’ hair away from her face while she vomits in their bathroom and the other two pass out blissfully in his bed. 

(Why his bed was a mystery to him, though when he had asked, Santana had quickly replied, “Because you never get laid and you’re too uptight to jerk off, so at any given moment, your sheets are guaranteed to be cleaner than ours.”)

So, Kurt has nothing to worry about. Everyone is twenty-one, he is perfectly able to pass a breathalyzer, and the girls are tipsy at best – mostly high off adrenaline from dancing, laughing, and letting frat boys drool over them from a safe distance. No, Kurt’s problem is he is sweaty, tired, and frustrated from a night – really a whole year – that has taught him that nothing has changed since high school: cute men want to kiss his – admittedly beautiful – female friends, and Kurt Hummel is apparently the only (out) gay boy in the Midwest.

“Wait, why did we stop? Kurt!” Rachel whines from the back as Quinn and Santana giggle furiously and scoot even closer together on the crowded seat. Kurt rolls his eyes and points a finger at the glaring sign set up to his right that reads – in neon orange letters, no less – “DUI Checkpoint.”

“Because, Rachel, we have to wait our turn. It’s a sobriety checkpoint,” he replies in a voice already worn thin.

“But I have to pee!” Rachel cries, suddenly looking desperate and bouncing in her seat.

“Pass her a bottle!” Santana calls out from crook of Quinn’s neck, where she is whispering something softly to the blonde, her hand inching slowly, but purposefully up Quinn’s thigh.

“Absolutely not!” Kurt responds. They’ve moved a few spaces up in line, but there are still about half a dozen cars in from of them. He glances to his right again and sees a gas station up about half a block. 

“Look,” he says, “go to that gas station. I’m sure a policeman can escort you there or something, if you need.”

Rachel nods quickly and throws open her door, practically prancing in her four inch stilettos to an officer patrolling the road on foot. Probably to prevent this very incident from occurring, Kurt thinks. But he knows Rachel, and her wide-eyed, girl-next-door innocence coupled with the high-class escort make over Santana gave her when they first arrived on campus tends to bend men to her will. Whether they want to fuck her or reform her (or both) is a psychosexual issue he is not even going to touch.

“I’ll go with her,” Quinn purrs, and slides out of the car. Not thirty seconds later, Quinn and Rachel are arm in arm and headed toward the station, with the officer following dutifully behind. Kurt eyes Santana in the rearview mirror.

“You will not fuck Quinn on my bed,” he tells her. She smirks.

“Someone ought to get laid on it once in awhile.” Her gaze softens, though, and she adds, “And your time is coming. I know this isn’t New York or San Francisco, but it’s not Lima, either.”

“Thanks,” he replies quietly.

They reach the checkpoint – finally – and Kurt passes the breathalyzer, as predicted. He pulls into the gas station to wait for Quinn and Rachel, only to find them in animate conversation with two young women, similarly dressed for a night out. Kurt pulls into an open parking space in front of the small convenience store, and he and Santana join the foursome on the sidewalk.

“ – and so they moved his car pretty quickly, because they are all set up for that, you know, in case they do bust a drunk driver, but they can’t spare an officer to drive us home.”

“I’m sorry,” Kurt politely steps forward to address the speaker, an Asian girl with gorgeous highlights and an inspired, Nancy Sinatra-esque outfit, “Do you girls need a ride?”

“Oh, Kurt!” Rachel exclaims, only just noticing him standing beside her. She had been staring intensely at a figure on a cell phone just up the walk, and Kurt wonders if maybe she’s more drunk than he realized. “This is Mercedes, from my Comp class, and her friend, Tina. They were out with their friend Blaine – ” she gestures to the figure, a strange, dreamy quality creeping into her voice, “and his car broke down in the line. Do you believe that?”

“I do,” Mercedes says. She is a gorgeous African American girl in a tight, but not indecent dress that hugs every last one of her curves. “That car is a piece of crap. We’re damn lucky it broke down in the middle of a DUI checkpoint, and not the middle of nowhere! I love Blaine to death, but the boy is so sweet and naïve, he’d probably have flagged down a passing car and we’d all have ended up as lampshades.”

“Um, I’m sorry, have you people never hear of iPhones?” Santana asks, pulling hers from her cleavage and waving it in Mercedes’s face. 

Kurt gives the girl credit; she smacks Santana’s hand away and replies, “Uh, yeah, but I challenge you to find a space for a phone on me. I know how to fill out a dress.” 

It’s a testament to Santana’s respect for the girl’s attitude that she merely offers a fake, tight-lipped smile rather than an open-palmed slap.

“Blaine is on his phone now, calling his dad,” Tina says, eyeing Santana wearily, “but I don’t really think he will be much help. His parents live three hours away, and he’s not th– the most understanding of people.”

“Here he comes,” Mercedes says, and the figure Rachel was – oh, make that is – so entranced with ambles over to the group with hunched shoulders. Rachel immediately makes room for him between herself and Kurt.

“Well,” he says, sounding about a million years old, “he’s not going to be much help tonight. Said I should have taken better care of her.” Mercedes scoffs and Tina shakes her head. The boy raises his eyes to glance around the group, noticing Kurt and Santana in one glance. “Oh, hello. Blaine Anderson.” He sticks he hand out, but Santana merely glances at it pointedly before turning toward Quinn. Kurt, though, offers his hand.

“Kurt Hummel. I was about to offer you and your friends a ride.” He gestures to his car, desperately attempting – and failing – not to notice that this boy, with his unruly dark curls and sinfully tight red pants, is the cutest fucking thing he has ever seen. 

Blaine’s eyes widen and sparkle – they honest to God sparkle – and he replies, “That would be great! But, um, will we all fit?” 

Santana removes her mouth from Quinn’s collarbone long enough to say, “You could sit on Kurt’s lap.” Kurt glares at her as she smirks, and Blaine’s cheeks redden.

“I could sit on his lap,” Rachel suggests, fluttering her eyelashes coyly at Blaine. He seems confused.

“Oh, honey,” Mercedes chimes in, “you are so not his type.” She looks Kurt up and down and grins approvingly. “You, however…” Blaine is most certainly blushing now, and Kurt is enchanted.

“Look,” Santana says, “It’s simple: Quinn, Rachel, and I will call a cab. You three will pay us back for it. Kurt will drive you home.”

“No,” Blaine quickly interjects, “I couldn’t. I can take a cab, you girls can all ride home with Kurt.” And it’s so funny, because Blaine says Kurt’s name in the same wistful tone as Rachel said Blaine’s, but Kurt isn’t annoyed by it at all.

Rachel seems to be, though. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cries, suddenly far less content to be standing on the sidewalk in front of a gas station at 2:40 a.m. “It’s no big deal, Blaine. We don’t live that far, anyway.”

Santana is on the phone a minute later, and their cab comes ten minutes after that. Kurt, Blaine, Tina, and Mercedes are on the road two minutes following. The girls don’t live too far from the checkpoint or, it turns out, from Kurt and his roommates. Blaine, however, is in the dorms two blocks away from Kurt’s small rental house, and Blaine insists Kurt drive home and let him walk the rest of the way, refusing to allow Kurt to walk him home. They’re standing in Kurt’s driveway, still arguing politely, when Kurt steps in it. 

“It’s really late, Blaine. Why don’t you just stay the night?” Blaine blushes furiously and looks away, stumbling out a half-formed excuse as he backs down the driveway. “Oh!” Kurt exclaims. “No, no, no, not like that. I meant the couch!” Blaine stops and looks even more humiliated. “Not that I wouldn’t like to. Do that. With you. I mean – We just met, but I – I mean –”

And then Blaine shocks, mildly terrifies, and delights Kurt simultaneously as he steps purposefully back up the driveway, into Kurt’s personal space, and plants a warm, soft, chaste, and overall wonderful kiss on Kurt’s lips. He pulls back, eyes demure, but mouth pulled into a knowing smirk, and says, “I would be eternally grateful if I could crash on your couch tonight, Kurt Hummel. And take you to breakfast in the morning.”

Kurt is breathless as he huffs out an, “Okay” and leads Blaine into the house, setting him up with pillows, blankets, and a new toothbrush before stumbling down the hall into his own room, Blaine’s warm laughter following him and his low voice calling out, “Are you sure you aren’t under the influence?”

Kurt’s bed is thankfully free of drunk girls sleeping off a night of mild debauchery, but there is a small box of condoms, assumedly from the gas station, and a note in Santana’s slanted scrawl: “I predict you will need these inside of two weeks.”


End file.
